


Character Study: Anderson

by SherlockedPsych (Makhsi)



Series: Studies in Sherlock [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Character Study, Gen, POV Minor Character, Vignette
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-01
Updated: 2012-01-01
Packaged: 2017-11-03 03:12:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 444
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/376478
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Makhsi/pseuds/SherlockedPsych
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A bit of writing practice to get a feel for Anderson's voice.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Character Study: Anderson

**Author's Note:**

> Because Anderson gets such a bad rap in fanfic, and too often I’ve seen him and Donovan portrayed as these cartoon caricatures of schoolyard bullies. In truth, I feel sorry for them both.

_Him_ again. At  _Anderson’s_ crime scene, rooting through  _Anderson’s_  evidence, interfering with  _Anderson’s_  job.

Every time there was something interesting, the _amateur_ showed up with a snide remark, a sidelong jibe at Anderson’s competence, and proceeded to explain in excruciating detail why everyone in the Yard was an “idiot”. His lip curled in something closer to a snarl than a sneer as Holmes listed in verbal bullet-point the oblivious incompetence of Lestrade, Anderson, Donovan, the entire team. 

That fucking psychopath.

“Idiot!”

Something in the way Holmes spit out the word set Anderson’s teeth to clenching. He had his degree, he had experience, he wasn’t on this team for _incompetence,_ he certainly wasn’t an idiot - no, no, his performance in university put the lie to that, whatever his marks in secondary school may have suggested -

_“God, boy, look at these marks. I swear you’re some stupid bastard’s son and none of mine, not with your sister doing so brilliant and me like I am. Or maybe you get the lack of brains from your ma, yeah?”_

His hand clenched too, a shaking fist at his side and he found himself glaring daggers at the amateur that Lestrade insisted on letting into Anderson’s cases.

He’d proven his da wrong. Over and over. Studied so hard at uni that he’d made himself sick from stress and lack of sleep. Top of his class in the end. Forensics. The Yard. Up and up until he was  _here_ , clawed his way here with diligence and work and attention to detail. A stupid, incompetent, oblivious person wouldn’t have been  _hired,_ much less made it to Anderson’s position.

He was not stupid.

He was _not._

Something about his posture, or his expression, or maybe the seething fury that radiated from him - something about it earned him a sidelong glance from Holmes. And - was it his imagination, or did the amateur _smile?_  Quick and dryly amused and gone before he could blink, but he could have sworn…

Holmes knew.

Of course he did, he was some sort of psychopathic savant (Anderson refused to credit Holmes with something so honest as study and work), it was uncanny how he managed to draw accurate conclusions from minuscule, seemingly irrelevant details. Of course he knew, he knew somehow about Anderson’s brilliant ( ~~ _addicted, manic, uncontrolled_~~ ) sister, he knew somehow about the mantra of  _stupid, idiot, lazy, useless, bastard_  that his father drilled into his childhood and adolescence with belt-leather punctuation.

Outrage at Holmes’ interference in his job, anger, old bitter pain, wounded pride - the entire cocktail of roiling emotions settled down into Anderson’s gut and brewed there into something black and tar-sticky, something entirely like  _hate._


End file.
